my birthday

I wake up early to go to a BAFTA Board meeting.

I put on my Nike Fuel Band and it flashes the words, "Happy birthday."

As the meeting is closing, the charming and wonderful chairman says, "And in case you didn't know, today is Lyn's birthday." We're Facebook Friends so he was probably alerted. So sweet that he made the announcement.

I come home to texts, phone messages and emails. You expect family and friends to remember but it's still nice when they do.

I get a couple of cards in the mail, and a couple of electronic cards.

I go on Facebook and like a little kid opening presents, I smile widely as I read the many birthday messages I've been sent. Some from people I haven't seen or spoken to in decades. It's heartwarming to know that even for a few seconds, so many have stopped what they were doing to wish me a happy birthday. It is the absolute best thing about Facebook.

I hear from people in cities where I once lived; from jobs where I once worked; schools that I once attended; schools that my son once attended (including the principal of one); classmates from the town where I grew up; people I've never met but who know me through my blog; an actor I met while he was performing in a play I attended; friends I've met through my sisters; children of friends of my sisters; my mom's friends; people in television I met through industry events or job interviews; weight-watcher buddies from years ago; my best friend growing up; current friends; family; Cape Cod friends; past lovers, including my first; BAFTA colleagues; and more.

I see a voicemail on my phone from the Bahamas. I don't bother listening until hours later, assuming it's some telemarketer trying to induce me to buy a condo there. But no. It's from an old boyfriend who's buying a boat there, and took out time to call and wish me a happy birthday.

All the good wishes and kind messages make me feel immensely lucky.

I have no plans for today and that is just fine.  I celebrated last night, and have dinner plans with friends for the 30th.

I buy a cooked duck breast for dinner at Butterfields — to go with a can't-put-down book called The Marriage Lie (by Kimberly Belle). I am healthy and feel much younger than the calendar says I am. I have friends I couldn't live without. A family I'm proud to be part of. I live in the best city in the world. And my son says he's coming home this weekend.

Yup, it's a very nice birthday.

dinner at The Mark

A month ago Valerie texts me asking if I'm free for my birthday. Of course I am. We decide on tonight as the night to celebrate, a day early.

My mom was supposed to join us but then came the blizzard, so she was unable to make it to New York. It ends up being an intimate group of four: my sister, Abbey, Jason, and me. Valerie has impeccable taste in everything and chooses The Mark Restaurant by Jean-Georges.

The food is amazing and plentiful. The house tuna tartare is a must-have-order, though everything is delicious and beautifully presented. It's nice to have family that is genuinely interesting and fun. 

We toast to my birthday and Abbey adds a few words. "May this be the year you meet that age-appropriate guy." This of course leads to a discussion of age-appropriate. For me, it's probably 55 to 67 or so. But then my sister adds something like, "If anyone that age is worth dating they are looking for someone a lot younger than you."

And then, as if to punctuate her point, as we are walking out, Val and Abbey bump into someone they know. He's cute. Has a nice demeanor. And I'm thinking age-appropriate. I see him with a pretty blond. I'm thinking maybe his daughter. Turns out it's his date. 

But yes, to Abbey's point, it would be nice to fall in love. Or at least deep like. If you know of anyone.... I am trying to be more open ... my birthday pledge.

Before leaving, and because I ask, everyone agrees to a photo.

much ado about nothing

Open my eyes, and run to the window.

Expecting to see a winter wonderland, I am so disappointed.

Instead of buried cars and white mounds, I see a smattering of snow. 

12-18 inches is now expected to be 2 to 4 inches.

Record-breaking nor'easter has been the headline for at least a week now. Even overtaking Trump's latest absurdities.

Warnings. Closings. What to do segments on shoveling, staying warm, etc. 

And then, not much.

snow, maybe

Finally it's winter. Freezing temperatures. Definitely glove weather. And now snow.

Since last week, meteorologists have been predicting a major winter blizzard (12-18 inches) in the Northeast for Tuesday, tomorrow. I love cold and I love snow, so for me, it's welcome news.

But last week my mom decides she won't be here for my birthday. One of her biggest fears  is being on the road in a snowstorm.

My dentist calls to cancel tomorrow's appointment. He's already planning not to be in.

I receive an email from some people at BAFTA; they'll be working from home tomorrow.

NYC schools have already been cancelled.

MTA above-ground service has been suspended starting at 4am.

Governor Cuomo has declared NY a state of emergency (beginning at midnight) and has ordered all non-essential government employees across most of New York to stay home.

I go to Agata. 

The store is packed; people on top of people everywhere. I overhear someone saying, "It looks like the end of the world." I select only items that don't need to be weighed so I can get in the shorter line. It still takes about 35 minutes to pay. The longer line snakes through the entire store. People must fear having no where to eat tomorrow.

I come home and see an email from Saks, sent to all its NYC employees. The store plans to open at its usual time.

At least there'll be somewhere to shop tomorrow if you need a nice dress. Oh, and Saks also has a very nice restaurant, just in case you find yourself without food.

gag ordered

I sometimes wonder if all my best adventures are behind me. It's a sobering thought, and not a welcoming one.

I am busy, but not with post-worthy activities. I went to a screening on Monday (Get Out) and again on Tuesday (The Sense of and Ending). But what can I really say beyond I liked  both films?

I haven't been writing often because any drama in my life is mostly banned from this blog.

Family. Everyone has something to say about family. Small and large misunderstandings. Unintended (hopefully) slights. And the desire to get along beyond the obligatory holidays. I have written things in the past that I thought were innocuous only to find out later that I've deeply offended someone. I don't think anyone in my family even reads my blog, except for my mom occasionally, and my nephew Michael.  

Friends. Recently I wrote that Petunia (of course not her real name) and I went shopping together. Petunia is very private and wrote to me asking that I delete her name. I of course obliged. But it now makes me overly cautious. I try not to mention any friends, unless I've explicitly been given their permission.

And then there's my job. Oh, the stories I could tell. Some outrageous, some funny, some heart-warming, and some pathetic. All would make for great story-telling.  But alas, I cannot. I've been warned. Literally.

So I'm left with little but the mundane to write about.

Or maybe this should be my incentive to find some wildly exciting new endeavor.

27-47-58

I stop by work today to get something.

I'm feeling good. It's a beautiful day. Sunny. 60 degrees.

I'm wearing jeans, a white tee, an Iro biker jacket that I love, and my new haircut.

I see my friend Charlie; he's 27 and always teasing me about my age. At first I was offended, but now I think he's just angling to find out how old I really am. Given his youth, I must look ancient to him.

He puts his hand near my neck and says, "From here down you look 27." 

I laugh and say, "Well, what about from here up?" 

"48," he responds. I'm complimented.

I tell him I have a birthday coming up and he says, "Let me guess. 58?"  

I look at him with feigned shock and say, "You're right."

He smiles all proud of himself.

And I smile, grateful for the years he's erased.

a mistake to leave him

"Hi Mark, I hope you remember me."  That's how I begin the conversation. 

I began seeing Mark in February 2015, but stopped a year later. No reason. The breakup was purely situational.

I was having my hair colored in May of 2016, and it was easy to just have someone who worked with Lico cut my hair. But Koda was never as good as Mark.

So yesterday, when I looked in the mirror and realized that I absolutely had to have my hair cut immediately, I called Mark. I felt guilty. I left him without explanation. So I tell him the truth and ask if he'll take me back. "Of course," he replies.

Today I see him. I actually spot him crossing Park, on my way to my appointment with him. It's like bumping into an old friend. Mark is still adorable. His salon (Mark on Madison) is pristine.  He is talented, interesting, and treats me with respect and kindness.

Mark is one of the few hair cutters I've ever gone to where I don't sit and read, or play on my phone, while he cuts my hair. We always have good conversations. About work. About family. About marketing. About his other business (hair extensions) and how to grow it. About life.

In thirty minutes he's done. And in eight weeks I'll be back.